


Safer Elsewhere

by cerchiociocca



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, F/M, Light Angst, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerchiociocca/pseuds/cerchiociocca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place minutes after His Last Vow (Season 3 Finale). Five chapters from Molly's Hooper's point of view as Sherlock hunts for the truth behind Moriarty's televised message. They both agree she'd be safest incognito for a few days, but Sherlock's idea of what that means is different from Molly's...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morgue

_Maybe it’s just a prank,_ Molly thought as she stared at the staticky image of Jim’s face. She felt weightless for a moment, blood rushing loudly in her ears. Suddenly, the office telly went back to its programme as if nothing had happened. Wait. Had it? _Pull yourself together, Hooper. Jim’s been dead for years now._ She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and blinked hard. The liver she had been holding a moment ago quivered wetly on the tile floor of the morgue. Not a good colour. Clearly, the liver’s owner had abused it with excess drink. She picked it up and maneuvered it onto the scale, mind racing. _Should I go home early? I do feel quite genuinely ill and I’m certain I look it._ A memory of Jim walking her to her flat on their second date flashed across her mind and she froze. Not home then, not until this was clearly revealed to be a prank. Who would…? She pulled her latex gloves off and texted Sherlock.

_if jim on my telly is revenge for me slapping you, it’s not funny_

When a response didn’t come within five of the longest minutes of Molly’s life, she jumped up restlessly and headed to the break room. _Maybe he changed his phone number?_ They hadn’t been in touch for weeks, not since she’d proven he’d relapsed with a drug test. She’d tried to smack some sense into him, but it didn’t seem to take, and she had to admit she regretted those slaps when she heard he’d been shot. Greg had called her about the mysterious event – no one knew who’d shot him or why – but when she rushed to intensive care he was already gone. Against doctor’s orders, she’d heard, but that was hardly a surprise. He never even dropped her a line afterwards. _Okay, that stung a little. But I suppose I had slapped him the last time I saw him…more than once._

The following weeks had actually been oddly normal, if dull, in the mercurial detective’s absence. Rumour had it that he was recovering. No one revealed publicly who’d shot him, so that meant the assassin was either top secret or still at large or both. Molly had tried her best to forget Sherlock had ever existed. She even traded shifts with coworkers so she would be less likely to run into him if he did stop by. Still, it was difficult. There was no one else like him, fortunately and unfortunately. _But I’m over him now, the junkie sociopath._

Molly clattered around in the break room cupboard until she found what she was looking for— “stress relief” herbal. It seemed a tall order for a cup of tea, but she had no idea what else to do. If that eerie message was not a prank, staying at St. Bart’s seemed foolish. Jim might know by now that she’d been complicit in Sherlock’s “death.” He might even have all the grotesque details. Not that Jim would mind grotesque details…

Molly leaned down to slurp at the tea she had filled too full, which promptly burnt her tongue. A lock of hair fell out of her messy bun and tickled her neck, making her turn around in a panic, and then want to kick herself for being so skittish. _Come ON, Molly!_ After all, if Jim were alive, he wouldn’t come to threaten her straightaway, would he? She had to be low on the list of people Sherlock associated with, especially lately. Sherlock hadn’t even stayed at her apartment since that time before his relapse, and that time had been a disaster.

 _Maybe Jim has forgotten all about me. Wouldn’t that be nice._ John and Greg had firearms for protection at least. But Molly’s hand began to tremble as she thought of poor Mrs. Hudson, alone. She leapt up and paced the break room. 

Mrs. Hudson’s phone rang and rang. Greg didn’t respond either. _Damn it, where is everyone?_ Molly hurried back to the morgue. She’d finish the current autopsy as quickly as possible, tell her supervisor she was ill afterwards, and go to Baker Street to check in on Mrs. Hudson. Having a plan made her feel better already. 

Just as she was zipping the drunkard’s corpse back up, she saw a familiar figure in the morgue doorway and stopped breathing for a moment. He was dressed normally in that flattering overcoat and a new suit and was regarding her with his usual intense gaze. He looked so much better than when she’d seen him last, rumpled in baggy clothes after a night in the drug den, that Molly began to smile in spite of herself. She quickly composed her face into what she hoped was aloof disdain. His eyes narrowed.

“I don’t need _revenge_ on you Molly, don’t be absurd. It wasn’t just here, it was on every screen in London.” 

“But how can he have done that? Did he set it up in advance?” 

“Whether Moriarty is resurrected or not, I’m thrilled at the timely diversion. I’d be on a suicide mission otherwise.” His lips quirked up into half a smile, but she couldn’t read what was going on behind those light eyes. “So. I don’t suppose you could fetch me his autopsy report?” Aha. Molly nodded and went to the file cabinet in the office. He followed her silently, making no movement to remove his coat or relax. 

“Of course I didn’t do Jim,” she said, stumbling over her words as she realized how that sounded. “I mean…didn’t…not his autopsy. I was busy that day with the…with you.” He nodded and looked away, tapping his long fingers absently on her desk. She was pleased to remind him of times when they had been closer, brief as they had always been. It took her mind off the drugs and slaps, which unfortunately still hung heavily between them unmentioned, in her mind at least. She wanted to ask about his bullet wound, something appropriately detached and clinical, but couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Jim’s report did not seem to be filed under M. Odd.

Sherlock sat stiffly behind the desk while she kept looking for the report and continued to avoid her eyes in awkward silence. It occurred to her that he might actually have the decency to be embarrassed about the state he was in when they last saw each other. The thought gave her a little flush of triumph. _He should be embarrassed! And he should’ve apologized, a real apology…not that stupid deduction about my engagement…well, accurate of course, but he knew exactly why!_

This was all very distracting but she finally found the file hiding under B for Brooks, since that had been Moriarty’s name at the time. She handed Sherlock the file and tried to remember what she had been doing before he showed up. It was aggravating how his presence still made her mind go blank, after all this time. 

“Mrs. Hudson!” she said suddenly, causing Sherlock’s head to snap up from the folder contents he had been scanning intently.

“What? Oh, she’s fine. Nothing a little herbal soother and an off-duty police bodyguard can’t fix.” He sighed impatiently and shut the file. “This looks exactly like one might expect for a self-inflicted gunshot wound. I’m missing something, have to be. I’ll have to study it. Copy this for me? I’ll get you your own bodyguard for the trouble.” He flashed a crooked smile at her but then seemed to think better of it and faltered. Their previous dynamic had obviously changed. She wasn’t going to wait on him for a half-smile or a compliment anymore, was she?

After a slight pause where they stared at each other without speaking, Molly obediently took the files from him and tried to think of a way to respond that was brave and not at all pathetic. Nothing came to mind. Nothing except the unwelcome image of Jim on the telly, his mouth twitching unnaturally. A few papers fell out of the file and rustled to the floor. “So, you think I’ll be needing a bodyguard as well? You and I have barely even been in touch.” She busied herself picking up the papers and xeroxing, trying to sound nonchalant but aware that she sounded petulant instead.

“Molly…” Sherlock was suddenly observing her in a way that was even more unsettling than usual. He seemed coiled tight as a spring. 

“Mmm?”

“Did Moriarty ever go to your flat?” 

Molly paused. She hadn’t expected that question. Since she had just been thinking about it before he arrived, it was like he was time-traveling and reading her mind now too. She wished she had a full suit of armour sometimes, in the face of that uncanny intellect. “Well,” she said reluctantly. “Jim walked me home once, but I didn’t…” He waved a hand and grimaced.

“I don’t need details. If he is alive…” Sherlock stood up abruptly. “You will be safer elsewhere tonight.”

* * *

Barely fifteen minutes later, Molly’s workplace had been made aware of her ‘very sudden and unpleasant stomach flu,’ and she and Sherlock were standing in the lobby of a newly renovated hotel on Fleet Street. She wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but it certainly seemed as if Sherlock was making reservations for both of them as some sort of ruse. He was speaking to the concierge in a low, conspiratorial voice and she perceived that he had altered his accent slightly. He even snickered occasionally in a very un-Sherlock way. It was as if she were living in a spy novel! It would be a lark if it weren’t so terrifying. 

Molly pretended to be fascinated by the tourist brochures display. Presently, he swept towards her with a key card marked 407 and said rather loudly “This’ll do nicely. I’ll go get our things, m’dear.” Molly waited for more clues about what to do next, but Sherlock was already out the door, so she turned slowly and with a cheerful smile to the concierge, headed to the lift and up to the fourth floor. Her heart was pounding so much it almost hurt. 

The room was a rather large open suite with posh modern furnishings suitable for executive types. Not really her style, but perhaps that was the point? Molly investigated the rooms thoroughly, noting the view (another building), toiletries provided (very nice), bathtub (jetted) and bed (quite enormous). Might as well enjoy it. She kicked off her shoes and pulled her phone out of her cardigan pocket, settling onto the comfy bed with the fluffy duvet and mountains of excessive pillows.

**_do i really get a bodyguard?_**

 This time the response was quick. ** _He’s already stationed in the lobby. Probably better if you don’t speak to him. SH_**

**_how will i feed the cat?_  **

**_Lay low for now. Don’t worry. SH_ **


	2. The Posh Prison

She typed up a text asking Sherlock if he was coming back at all, but deleted it without sending. _Maybe that was just for the concierge to hear._ The lack of a toothbrush was going to be a problem. Molly brushed her teeth three times a day without fail. Her father had been a dentist and she was secretly revolted and compelled by his collection of oral disease textbooks as a child. Was she allowed to leave this room at all? Fear slowly turned into irritation. He could’ve at least told her what her fake name was supposed to be. It was confusing, just when she’d felt like life was moving forward without Sherlock Holmes, to have him consuming her thoughts again like nothing had happened in the interim. 

Well, nothing exciting had. _Is fearing for your life really preferable, Molly?_   She let her hair down, rubbed her scalp, took a breath and turned the telly on, just in time to catch the last few moments of Greg’s press conference. He wasn’t giving the press any answers, either because he didn’t have any or he didn’t want to. She wasn’t sure which, but suspected it was the former. She’d have to pester him for details later. He had never been a step ahead of Jim, only Sherlock could ever come close. Molly dozed off on the cozy pillow mountain and nearly jumped out of her skin when the door opened without a knock.

“What if I hadn’t been decent?” she exclaimed, as Sherlock walked in with a small purple suitcase that looked just like one she owned. Her eyes widened. “Did you go to my flat?”

“Of course.” He put her suitcase on the bed and unzipped it, briskly pulling her garments out and putting them on hangers in the wardrobe before she could protest. She noted that he had chosen her most formal outfits, the ones she did job interviews in and otherwise never wore. When he reached her underclothes he hesitated primly, and put the entire suitcase away with a theatrical flourish. “Clothing. Toothbrush. Prescriptions. You should have everything you need, though from the looks of you, I suppose I should’ve found your hairbrush, sorry.” Molly’s hands flew to her hair and she tried vainly to comb it with her fingers. She pictured Sherlock rummaging through her messy closet and her face got hot. It got worse as his words registered fully. Molly only had one prescription, and it was a daily pill that was somewhat unnecessary since the dissolution of her relationship with Tom. _Oh, dear Lord._

“I fed Toby,” Sherlock continued as he removed his overcoat, sprawling in one of the large armchairs and picking up a magazine. “Interesting choice of newspapers under his catbox…” Molly stiffened and opened her mouth but nothing came out. She had used the tabloids that featured Janine’s detailed revelations about Sherlock’s sexual prowess. The headlines had upset Molly, so naturally she had to purchase all of them and read every word, just to torment herself. Then, it had seemed fitting to put them somewhere disgusting. Being Sherlock, of course he had noticed. He flipped silently through the magazine and finally glanced at her. “You shouldn’t read tabloids, Molly, they’re full of lies.” 

“Well, exaggerated, I imagine.”Molly found her tongue and couldn’t resist a little dig. “Nothing could be as fantastic as the tabloids make it seem, could it?” He looked at her sharply and relaxed when she grinned back at him.

“Mmm,” agreed Sherlock. Then he threw the magazine down and turned to face her so intently that she drew back into her pillow mountain. “Molly.”

“Yes?”

“I am truly sorry.”

“Well, you thought he was dead, we all did…”

“No.” Sherlock’s face betrayed an inner struggle and he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about your engagement.”

“Oh.” Molly sagged. “Well. How could Tom understand? It was just too much to ask of him.”

“So it _was_ because of…the incident?” Sherlock looked pained. He popped up from the chair and began pacing the room.

“You were lying _in my bed_ fast asleep, Sherlock. What would a normal person think?” Molly couldn’t help it, anger seeped into her voice. She had thought she was over it. To be honest, Tom had been driving her crazy for weeks beforehand (it got noticeably worse when Sherlock came back to London permanently), but to have it end that way had been so humiliating. “Our friends all believe him of course. I couldn’t really deny it. There you were. In my bed! You obviously had a key to my flat.” She declined to remind him he’d seemed to be nude because she wasn’t absolutely certain. It had been an awfully hot night. It was a logical assumption. Her flowered yellow sheet had only covered him up to the waist. Tom had been livid, Molly speechless. Remembering the view of his peaceful countenance and heavenly torso sprawled sideways on the bed, Molly felt her anger evaporate as other less convenient emotions took over. _Oh, you are a hopeless case, Hooper._

“I just needed a bolt-hole that night! Must people always be so crass?” 

“ _You_ have bolt-holes. _Normal_ people have affairs.” Sherlock made a disgusted noise. Molly climbed off the bed and padded over to him at the window. Before she could talk herself out of it, she had taken one of his hands in her own. He looked down at their joined hands in surprise, then looked up at her uncertainly. “It’s okay, Sherlock. It wasn’t meant to be. If it was, he would’ve believed me.”

“That is true,” he said without hesitation. “And, they couldn’t have been good friends if they would think that of you. No loss there really. You wouldn’t cheat on your fiancé. Don’t they know you at all?” She smiled up at him. It was sweet of him to say, but she knew she would have. Sherlock had to know too. Didn’t he? “But,” he continued unhappily, “you must miss the…frequent intimacy.” She burst out laughing at his tortured phrasing, even though his face stayed grave and he didn’t crack a smile. He pressed his lips together and looked away. She tried to stifle her giggles.

“Well, okay, yes. Sometimes I do. He was good for some things.” Did Sherlock’s nose actually wrinkle when she said that? It was kind of fun to tease him. Too easy.

“Ah. So, then, Molly, I apologize for my unwitting part in ruining your first physically satisfying relationship in several years, though I must say it seems it needed ruining, before you became legally bound and discovered he was utterly wrong for you.” Now that sounded like Sherlock. She had no desire at all to ask how he’d known it was her first real relationship in several years. Best to let that one go.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Are you sorry for anything else? Relapsing in a crackhouse perhaps?”

“That was for a case.”

“Sherlock.”

“For a _case_ , Molly.” He squeezed her hand a little. “Okay, I am sorry for that too. It was a shortsighted, very poor decision. I’m so very sorry for everything I’ve ever done to you, or for that matter, anyone else in the whole of London that I have wronged with a few harmless moments of bliss. Is that better?”

“My little brother was a junkie.” Sherlock looked startled. Molly was startled too. She hadn’t meant to mention it. It was no one’s business, she never discussed it except with family, and she didn’t want Sherlock thinking he was off the hook for his stupidity, just because she had some old _baggage_ about addiction.

“Is he…improved now?” inquired Sherlock carefully.

“Maybe. Depends on your belief in the afterlife. He ODed when I was in med school.” Alarmingly, Molly felt tears prick at her eyes. She hadn’t even cried at the memorial service. She’d felt nothing but fury at him for years. “Such a waste.” She couldn’t look at Sherlock, though her small hand was still engulfed in his and she couldn’t let go. She looked fiercely out the window and wished she hadn’t said any of it.

“I see,” said Sherlock quietly. 

To change the subject, Molly’s other hand fluttered up near where he had been shot. “How is your gunshot wound healing?” He stopped her before she could touch his chest, but before she could even feel self-conscious about it, he had clasped his hand around hers and slowly brought it down to the other one. He held both her hands in his, still looking out the window. His hands were warm. Molly had to remind herself to breathe. He was always doing this, throwing her off with weirdly affectionate gestures. He’d probably kiss her forehead or pat her on the head next.

“Quite all right now, the would-be assassin just missed my heart. It wasn’t related to the drugs at all, since I can see you’re wondering. Interesting case, we’ll see how that one develops over time, but for now I’ve got to find out who’s behind the Moriarty message. Time is of the essence as far as that goes. I should head back, now that you are safe here and have your things.” His words _sounded_ like he was walking out the door, but he was still standing at the window holding her hands. It was a bit odd, but everything was today. It was hard for Molly to even imagine waking up this morning in a world with definitely dead Moriarty and mysteriously absent Sherlock. After a moment longer, he dropped her hands and backed away, as if she were a dangerous animal he didn’t want to spook.

“Text me every once in a while, just to y’know, keep me updated?” asked Molly. He nodded solemnly. She could tell he wasn’t feeling as confident about the Moriarty challenge as before. The gunshot wound had changed him. She was worried. “Do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help from my posh prison here, I’ll be terribly bored.”

Sherlock finally smiled back at her. “Indeed.”


	3. Weakness

He’d been gone a few hours when Molly realized she still didn’t know her fake name. She was getting hungry. If she called room service, would they ask her to give her name? She didn’t know. She’d never had room service before, it always seemed more expensive than it was worth, and she liked to get out and explore new cities when she was on holiday. She wished she could put together a convincing disguise and sneak out, perhaps as a wealthy French countess visiting London for the first time.

She thought of her rarely worn dresses and skirts hanging in the closet. Probably the disguise of “Molly Hooper on a job interview” was not convincing. 

**_what is the name the room is under please?_ **

**_Bloom, but the concierge knows it’s an alias, so it doesn’t matter. SH_ **

**_what’s the point if he knows?_ **

**_It’s the reason he thinks you are using an alias that matters. SH_ **

Molly thought of Sherlock’s sketchy behavior in the lobby and realized they were likely posing as unfaithful spouses having a tryst. _How mortifying. Oh, and it’s a literary reference…the unfaithful and sensual Molly Bloom. Clever. He probably thinks I’m too uncouth to catch that one._  

She rang up reception and ordered herself the most expensive steak on the menu and a glass of red wine. _If I can’t masquerade as a French countess on holiday, I can at least eat like one since Sherlock is paying. Too bad I have to watch bad telly alone instead of actually get to have a romantic tryst with someone. Wonder if the concierge will notice that half of our tryst has run off and isn’t coming back? Adultery is clearly not Sherlock’s area of expertise._

Molly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wardrobe opposite the bed. Same old Molly Hooper. Colorless hair offset by a magenta polka-dotted cardigan. Older than she expected to see lately, but somehow still looking like a teenaged version of herself. What would it take to transform into a believable temptress of married men who stayed in posh hotels at their whims? Maybe it was time for a drastic change. She remembered that she had seen a spa brochure in the lobby and rooted around in the suite’s desk until she found the menu. She’d had the same look forever, except for those few weeks in 2006 when she’d tried out some silly blonde highlights on the suggestion of a friend. The idea of going incognito now was appealing, no one would ever expect it of her.

Even Jim might miss her in a crowd if she, well…stood out more. She made a few appointments for the following morning.

* * *

Much later that evening, Molly was watching the news under the duvet when she heard a knock on the door. She crept up quietly and was rewarded with a birds-eye view of Sherlock dressed so differently she didn’t recognize him at first. At least he had remembered to knock. She was still dressed, minus the cardigan, just in case. She let him in and tried not to gawk at the sight of him in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. 

“Is everything all right?” she asked. He bounded into the room and began talking fast.

“I have made some inquiries on the streets and gone a few places to observe a few key people and everything is quite quiet besides the general apprehension that Moriarty may be alive. So far, there is no other evidence other than that broadcast message, which could have been recorded anytime. I’ve reviewed the autopsy and there is nothing suspicious about it. It’s most annoying.”

He flopped into the chair, drummed his hands on his thighs, jumped up again and looked out the window, closed the curtains, and sat down again, this time perched on his heels like some kind of yogi. Molly felt exhausted watching him. Or, maybe it was just the steak and wine…which had been lovely. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Molly had switched off the TV but climbed back into her heap of pillows. _I’m going to have to get some extra pillows at home. This is fantastic._

“Something will turn up or another message will be broadcast. For tonight, we wait.”

“Oh.” She waited for him to explain what he was doing here, but he said nothing, lost in thought. “Well, I’m getting sleepy…”

“It’s probably the wine.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake. Did it stain my lips? Do I reek like a vineyard?” 

Sherlock smiled absently. “I spoke with the concierge on the way in. Was dinner good?”

“Yes, very. Did I blow our cover by eating alone?”

“No, no. I’m here now, all is well.” He stared off into the distance again and Molly didn’t know what to say. 

“Right then.” She climbed under the duvet again, still fully dressed. He continued to perch on the chair and stare into space. Would he stay there all night? “There is a sofa in the adjacent room, maybe that would be more comfortable?” No way was she offering him the bed this time. 

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “I just need to think.” 

Molly sighed and began to disrobe under the duvet. She dropped her trousers, socks, and bra off the side of the bed as discreetly as possible and was left in her blouse. Though she was sleepy, she knew she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with Sherlock in the same room. She couldn’t help watching him think even though he would probably catch her at it. She tried to breathe deeply and slowly as if she were asleep, and observed his unique profile in the dark room. She could almost feel his mind churning from several feet away and remembered his genuine fear before the fall years ago. She had possibly been the only person to ever see Sherlock frightened.

Could Jim really be alive? She wished she had done his post-mortem to be absolutely certain, though it was hard to believe any of her colleagues would be careless. Her mind began reviewing each colleague to think who would be most susceptible to bribery or blackmail. They all seemed above reproach, but maybe one of them had said something that would indicate…

“You changed your schedule to avoid me. Why, exactly?” Sherlock’s low voice cut through the darkness, making Molly jump. _What does that have to do with Jim?_

“Hmm?” Molly replied.

“Don’t pretend to be asleep, though if you need a moment to answer that’s quite all right.”

“I…well…I don’t really know, I needed a little space,” she replied. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure why now. His voice made her feel so warm inside, just like it always had, even though his words were cold. “I thought you might as well, after the pee test and…” she trailed off. 

“A moment ago you seemed concerned about my injury, but I didn’t see you when I was recovering.” Molly felt a pang of regret, then defensiveness. She also realized that Sherlock thought it had only been a moment ago when it had been several hours. His sense of time was always so strange. _Why is he interrogating me?_

“I went as soon as I heard, you were already gone!” Her words hung in the air without a response. The silence became oppressive. She sat up in bed. “I did!” 

“I believe you,” said Sherlock flatly. 

“You are really impossible, you know that?”

“It has been mentioned.”

“Destroy my engagement, bring up memories of my dead brother, sleep with that bridesmaid, and _still_ I went to see you in hospital. And now I’m in danger just because I know you!” Molly realized she was shouting and stopped to take a breath. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. She could’ve sworn his eyes were glittering in the low light.

“Mmm. Where to begin with all that. Let’s start with _completely_ wrong; didn’t sleep with the bridesmaid who has a name, by the way, it’s Janine. Didn’t we cover that already? Moving right along to _partially_ wrong; that’s not the reason you’re in danger. Partially right but you’re better off anyway; the engagement, which we also discussed. I have to grant you the brother thing, although I didn’t know your family history and at least my weakness brought you the closure of hitting the dead junkie _three times_ by proxy, which you know you enjoyed.”

“Your what?”

“My…weakness.” Molly smiled. She hadn’t thought he’d say it again.

“So you didn’t sleep with her even once then?” 

“In all honesty we did sleep in the same bed a few times, but I am aware that’s not what you mean by the verb.” Molly wanted to tease him again, but the thought of him in bed snuggling with Janine was physically painful. “We kissed seven times in total and saw each other in varying states of undress, which formed the basis of her entire tawdry fabrication in the papers.” That was pretty bad too.

Molly looked away and blinked a few times, feeling foolish. She’d dated Tom, and even Jim, and yet Sherlock had never been with anyone since she’d known him. Surely she shouldn’t begrudge him a dalliance with that pretty brunette. Seven kisses. What Molly would’ve given for seven kisses…but clearly she wasn’t his type.

“Wait, why am I in danger if not because I know you?”

“I know lots of people.”

“So?”

Sherlock sighed. “I _care_ about you. That’s why you might be in danger. You know that.”

Molly’s heart skipped a beat but she recovered fast. “Because I’ve helped you when no one else would, and you’ve always had me around to take for granted?”

“No!” 

“Is Janine in another hotel somewhere nearby, hiding from Jim as well?”

“Actually, no, she’s quite safe. Are we done talking about Janine yet?”

“Not quite. You woke me up to bother me with questions, now it’s my turn. Why is she safe? Seven kisses and you think Jim wouldn’t notice you’d fallen for her?” Sherlock stood up impatiently and walked to the window, peeking through the curtains at the courtyard and building opposite. She had to admit the jeans looked pretty good on him.

“Oh, Molly, don’t be so blind. The whole _thing_ was for a case. Jim would see that in an instant.”

“Right! I should’ve known, for a case. You say that a lot lately.”

“It was a difficult case,” he said through clenched teeth. “Getting shot was the worst part of it, but if you like, I’ll say it was the feigned romance.”

“I’m so curious, Sherlock, what kinds of things did you say to convince her it was real?”

“That’s enough, Molly.” Sherlock sat down in the chair again and crossed his arms.

“Now that you are James Bond, romancing girls to solve crimes. Did you watch all the movies for tips?”

Sherlock glared at her. “Well, I suppose I won’t get any thinking done here tonight,” he huffed. “I only have everyone I care about, present company included, in jeopardy. By all means, let’s waste time reviewing the boring dinner dates.”

“Boring dates, kissing, and occasional nudity. You should start a new website! The Science of Seduction,” crowed Molly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scowled. “All right then. You think, I’ll sleep.”

She rolled over in bed and pulled the duvet over her head. After a few minutes she peeked out but he wasn’t in the chair. After her eyes adjusted to the dim light she made out his form on the couch in the next room. That was somehow far enough away that Molly was able to drift off to sleep almost immediately.

She dreamt of Jim sitting in Sherlock’s chair at Baker Street, and Sherlock sleeping peacefully in her bed wrapped in a flowered sheet amongst a heap of hotel pillows.


	4. Black Coffee

The next morning there was no sign of him. Molly headed downstairs to the hotel spa, feeling weirdly dressed up in her plum satin blouse with a long bow at the throat and a houndstooth pencil skirt that made her feel more like an administrative assistant than a countess of any nationality. Her stylist was a tall, angular woman with spiky blonde hair and enormous noisy earrings named Yvette. That seemed promising.

“I’d like a complete makeover, Yvette,” Molly said. “Make me glamourous and sophisticated and young and charge it to my room.”

“Absolutely, darling! Let me guess, you’ve had a bad breakup and you’re hoping to make him sorry?” Yvette combed her fingers through Molly’s long hair eagerly.

“Close enough,” said Molly, looking at herself in the flattering salon mirror and feeling her stomach do a somersault. “I’d just like to be someone else for awhile.” 

* * *

It was truly remarkable. A few hours later, Molly was transformed. The first thing you noticed was the wavy waterfall of layered copper red hair with thick bangs and dark plum lips. Her eye makeup was smoky coal-black, her cheekbones contoured with subtle peach blush, and her brows reshaped. Her nails were dark aubergine with a sparkly sheen that made Molly think of her uncle’s motorcycle, though she was reassured by several fashion magazines in the salon that it was very “on trend.” The perfumed yet slightly sharp chemical smell of her dyed hair was intoxicating in its newness. She hadn’t expected to smell so different.  _My own mother won’t recognize me. I could at least pass for a French administrative assistant now. I wonder if the hotel shops have any cute clothes…?_

Molly spent a rather fun hour browsing the boutiques and picking out a few things. The salespeople seemed much more helpful than any ever had before her makeover. She stood up a little straighter, and didn’t apologize when another woman bumped into her. She felt invincible and fully disguised, especially with her new large tortoiseshell sunglasses. Heads turned as she walked through the lobby. The concierge did a double take and she gave him a little wave.

She headed back up to 407 to order lunch and read the paper. After determining that there was no news about Jim anywhere (beyond a few conspiracy theories in the Letters to the Editor), she flipped to the crossword. Her sandwich arrived, with a mimosa in an elegant flute. _Best stomach flu ever._ She was seated on the sofa with her legs tucked up underneath her, half-finished with both lunch and crossword, when she heard the door open behind her.

“Someone’s started leaving messages for me with the homeless network.” Sherlock strode into the room, tossing his overcoat and scarf onto the armchair and rubbing his hands together with glee, but stopped short when he saw the new Molly on the couch. His face got very still and he seemed frozen in place. Molly felt her new confidence start to waver. He usually picked apart any of her bold style choices instantly, and they had all been much more subtle than this. 

“I needed a change,” she explained. “It’s a good time to go incognito.” Her familiar voice seemed to snap him out of his paralysis.

“Mmm, yes, effective. Mrs. Bloom. Of course. Yes.” He didn’t make eye contact with her, but instead went to the bathroom to pour a glass of water. He walked back in slowly, sipping, staring out the window. “I thought that skirt would…well, I’d never seen you wear it. So…”

“I’ve only worn it to job interviews. It’s a miracle it still fits.”

“Right. Well. As I was saying, I’ve been left some coded fragments of a puzzle to work out. Whoever is behind this is impatient to get started. The game is on. John is meeting me at Baker Street shortly and your ‘posh imprisonment’ will soon be ended.” 

“That’s too bad.”

“Sorry?”

“I was just starting to enjoy the holiday,” said Molly, stretching and ruffling her new hair.

“I see. Well, with your new schedule you wouldn’t be back to work for two more days anyhow.” Molly flinched. She really hadn’t thought he would be so hurt by her avoiding him after the pee test incident, but there it was again. She started to speak but he continued with a rush. “Feel free to spend the whole weekend here, if you like, whether I have this case solved or not. Consider it a gift, or reparations for the inconvenience. Whichever suits you. I’ll stop back in this evening to check on you, Mrs. Bloom. The restaurant just off the lobby is advertising live music tonight so you’ll have some entertainment. Just don’t make too many new friends or have too many cocktails and all should be well.” He gathered up his coat and headed back out before she could even respond to that rude last bit. She downed the rest of the mimosa. 

* * *

The live music in the hotel restaurant turned out to be jazz, which Molly wasn’t too familiar with, but she decided that her alter ego Mrs. Bloom enjoyed it. There was a lady pianist in a sequined gown who sang in an appealing raspy voice, an enthusiastic stand-up bass player in a tux, and a fat drummer in a light blue suit all squeezed onto a small stage to the left of the fireplace. Molly was able to get a seat with her back to the wall that gave her an unimpeded view of the entrance, the open kitchen, and the bar. She was wearing a tailored black crepe dress that she had last worn to a great-aunt’s funeral, livened up by a new lavender scarf and mustard t-strap heels.

Her eyes flicked often to the screen above the bar to keep track of any Moriarty developments, but all she saw was rugby.

The menu was long and there was an unknown amount of time to kill, so she started with a champagne cocktail and a cup of soup. She had brought a book to discourage unwanted attention, sitting alone. The bangs on her forehead felt foreign. Her waiter was handsome and flirted shamelessly with her. She grudgingly heeded Sherlock’s warning and nursed just the one cocktail even when it got flat.

After an hour passed pleasantly in this way, the band took a break and she ordered a second course of an arugula salad. She paused in her reading just to scan the room and noticed that it had filled up but no one seemed suspicious, and more importantly, no one was taking any notice of her other than a few furtive glances from single men at the bar that she pointedly did not return. 

“Any requests from the lady with the book?” The stand-up bass player was standing near her table with a grin. She could smell that he’d just been outside having a smoke in the cold. He wasn't bad-looking, if a little short. He did look taller without the standup bass.

“Oh, no thank you,” she replied, raising her nearly-empty glass in his direction. “Your band is quite good though.”

“Thank you. You can’t toss us a song to start our next set? Your favorite standard? It’s ever so much better when the audience gets involved.” He straightened his bow tie and raised his eyebrows at her.

“Erm, do you know Black Coffee?” Molly's mother used to sing it around the house when her father stayed at work late. “Oh! I suppose that’s blues, not jazz…I don’t know.”

“No, that’s a great choice!” he reassured her, and headed back to the stage to rejoin his trio. He conferred with the others for a moment and then they launched into her request, which distracted Molly enough that she didn’t see Sherlock enter the restaurant until he sat down at her table.

“Still having fun?” he asked, tucking a cloth napkin onto his lap and summoning the waiter with a gesture. “I’ll have whatever the lady is drinking.” 

“Certainly, sir,” said the waiter, with a businesslike nod to Molly that seemed to apologize for the two hours of flirting. She tried to smile encouragingly at him but he averted his eyes and sped away. Sherlock had ruining her love life down to within seconds of making an appearance. It was like a magic trick or a curse or something. She sighed. He was talking about his progress with code fragments but she wasn’t really listening. The jazz singer performing the song she’d only heard her mother sing made her nostalgic.

_I'm feeling mighty lonesome  
_ _Haven’t slept a wink  
_ _I walk the floor and watch the door  
_ _And in between I drink  
_ _Black coffee  
_ _Love's a hand me down brew_

When the waiter returned with Sherlock’s cocktail she ordered another. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it when he saw the dark expression on her face. He raised his glass.

“To Mrs. Bloom.”

“To Mr. Bloom’s safe return,” she countered. His eyes flickered over her face and then he looked away.

“It’s very strange,” he said.

“What is?”

“That Moriarty wouldn’t come out to play, but would just send me code fragments. We’re beyond that, he and I. He’s up to something big, or he’s dead and his imposter is stalling for time. I’ve narrowed it down to twelve likely scenarios…”

Molly zoned out again as he began to rattle them off. She rested her chin on her hand and watched the piano player croon.

_I'm moody all the morning  
_ _Mourning all the night  
_ _And in between it's nicotine  
_ _And not much heart to fight  
_ _Black coffee  
_ _Feelin' low as the ground  
_ _It's driving me crazy just waiting for my baby  
_ _To maybe come around_

When they finished, Molly clapped wildly. The bassist put his hands in prayer position and bowed slightly towards her, making eye contact, before they started a more upbeat number. A few couples began to dance. The room was getting louder and more festive. Molly accepted her second drink from the now-solemn waiter and was taking a sip when she realized Sherlock had stopped talking and was regarding her in silence.

“What? This is only my second drink, and you’re here now, so I can’t say or do anything indiscreet.”

“Why did the musician thank you?”

“He was begging for requests, so I gave him one. Are you going to eat anything?”

He shook his head impatiently. “Probably not. Has it been difficult, being discreet?”

“No,” she said irritably. “Well, maybe a little.”

“I have a request.”

“For the band?” Molly was confused.

“No, for you.”

“Oh. Well, ask away. I’ve never refused you and you know it. What do you need?”

“I can’t ask here. Upstairs.”

“I’ve just got this cocktail,” she protested. 

“I’ll get a bottle for the room.” Molly put her book in her purse and stood up.

“A bottle! Are we celebrating something?”

“Why not. I’ve solved the Moriarty case.” Sherlock punctuated this revelation with a yawn. “Nice lilac scarf, by the way.”

“What? When?” Molly leaned against the back of her chair. 

“Just now. I suppose you didn’t follow. None of you ever do…well, it’s anticlimactic anyway. No dragons to slay, nothing of interest at all.” He got up and placed his napkin, which he had folded into a swan shape for some reason, on the table. “See you upstairs in a moment.”


	5. The Science of Seduction

Molly headed to her room, stunned. Had he just solved the case while he was talking to her and she wasn’t even listening? And what on earth did he need her to do now? Whatever it was, she hoped it wouldn’t jeopardize her job again. She stepped out of the yellow heels and fidgeted compulsively with her bangs until Sherlock arrived, with a silver bucket full of ice and champagne and two glasses. 

“Start with Moriarty,” she demanded, taking the full glass he offered her and reclining on the pillow heap that had been magically restored to perfect heights by the maid this morning. “Is he alive?”

“Nope. Still dead.”

“Who’s behind the message? One of his assassins?”

Sherlock settled comfortably into the armchair with his champagne and smirked.

“Hardly. I took care of his whole network myself. It’s just Mycroft.”

“Your brother Mycroft?”

“Are there any others?”

“But why?”

“He knew my mission was a suicide mission, I presume he determined I’d be more useful here in London after all. Can’t imagine it was sentiment.” Sherlock paused, and Molly saw plainly written all over his face that it _was_ sentiment, and he knew it. “However, I assume he needed an excuse that his employers would accept. He had plenty of footage to use from when Moriarty was in his custody before. I’m somewhat ashamed I didn’t see it sooner, but he is devilishly good at puzzles.”

“Well, that’s straightforward.” Molly leaned back and stared at the ceiling. So this had all been for nothing. She twisted a lock of red hair in her fingers and couldn’t resist sniffing it.

“I told you it was anticlimactic.” 

“What made you realize it was your brother?”

“Oh, the song in the restaurant reminded me of him right as I was thinking about an aspect of the code fragment that was particularly Mycroftian in its construction.”

“The song reminded you of him?”

“Mycroft takes his coffee black. It was just a chance association at that moment. Serendipitous.” He sighed with boredom. “The rest of the fragments all fell into place. Sometimes that’s all it takes.” 

“What did you want to ask me to do?” Molly leaned forward curiously. Sherlock paused, looking uncomfortable, and then swigged the rest of his champagne rather quickly.

“Molly…”

“Yes?”

The words all came out in a rush, slightly slurred. “While I don’t expect future cases to include vast amounts of seduction since so few have in the past, I do think your point that my skills were lacking in that area is well taken. Who knows, it may come up again and a more complete understanding of the mechanics involved could be a distinct advantage. If it does, I will need some experience. Research.” She remembered the story of the stag night and realized he was already tipsy.

“Research?” _What is he talking about?_

“I believe the kissing was fine, though I’d like your advice in that arena as well, to make improvements. Improvement is always good, yes? But really what I’m most concerned with is what comes after the kissing.”

“After the kissing.” This was getting interesting. “So, what’s the request exactly?”

“Well, firstly, I should ask if you are still attracted to me. Or has my recent behavior put you off too much?” Molly blinked. The bizarre turn in the conversation compounded with champagne on top of a light meal began to make her feel tipsy.

“I’m…yes.” He gave her a puzzled look.

“Yes, you’re still attracted or yes, I’ve put you off?”

“Yes,” Molly said again, with a short laugh. She put the glass on the nightstand. “Both. Sorry, but it’s true.”

“Well, that complicates things a little, or maybe it doesn’t, I don’t know. You’ll just have to tell me.” Molly waited. She wasn’t sure what the question was, but it seemed like it was going to be something pretty entertaining. _Is he actually asking me for advice in seducing women? Like he’d ever needed to even try with me!_ “Oh, you are making this difficult for me, Molly.”

“I’m doing what? I’m not even sure what you’re getting at.” She crawled towards him, stopping at the end of the huge bed. He didn’t move a muscle. She looked up at him through her bangs and smiled boldly. “Make your request, Sherlock.” His eyes widened. He swallowed.

“Will you…seduce me?” he whispered. Molly’s smile faded. She’d thought he was going to ask a few questions, maybe have her draw an explicit diagram or two. This was unexpected. “So I know how it’s done.”

She realized the vulnerable position he’d put himself in and that she’d have to respond carefully. His green eyes were fixed on hers, waiting for her to answer. 

“I’m not certain that I’m an expert in the science of seduction.” She sat back on her heels, turning the smile back on so he wouldn’t think she didn’t want to seduce him. _Oh my god oh my god._ She couldn’t think of anything she wanted more, really. The expression on his face was doing something to her insides that she couldn’t explain. They’d just passed through a doorway of some kind, into a parallel universe perhaps, and nothing would ever be the same.

“No? You have had every man in this hotel in the palm of your hand all evening,” said Sherlock pointedly. She didn’t know what to say to that.

“Well, it is quite a good salon here,” she said finally, and shrugged. 

“You are very beautiful, Molly,” said Sherlock. 

“Oh. That’s very good,” she said breathlessly. “That’s the right thing to say, I think.”

He got up from the chair and moved next to her on the bed very slowly, all the while maintaining eye contact that made Molly dizzy. “Maybe you could save all of your comments on my technique until the end and then give me a summary?” He glided his hand into her hair. She clutched his wrist in a sudden panic. Everywhere their skin connected felt like it was burning her.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she gasped. “I have wanted you for so long and I don’t know if I can just be…research.” His brow furrowed.

“Hm. You’ve said you’re still attracted to me, you’ve told me yourself you have a high libido, and you’ve convinced me my technique needs work. Why can’t you help me with my research? I don’t understand.” Molly let out a strangled laugh. Just the scent of him that close was reducing her grip on reality. _I’m done for._

“All very good points.” She buried both her hands in his hair, closing her fingers into fists, and touched her forehead to his. “I can’t expect you to understand, yet.” She lowered her hands to his collar and began to unbutton his shirt. “So, if it’s what you want, I’ll fulfill your request. As a friend.” She pushed his shirt off his shoulders. She traced the gunshot scar with her fingertip and then felt his heart beating under her palm. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his, an electric current coursing down her body. He made a noise deep in his throat that sounded like genuine pleasure, but then pulled back.

“As a friend?” he repeated. “My understanding is that we are about to become more than friends. However, the literature of romance seems divided on that point, depending on who does the seducing, and other factors.” Molly smiled. It was hardly clear who was seducing who at this point. He was overthinking it without understanding it in the least. _Will he understand if we go through with this? Will we both regret it?_ Molly simply couldn’t care. Her body refused to listen to anything but Sherlock’s breathing, which seemed faster than usual, but then she wasn’t a consulting detective.

“Yep. I am more than a friend,” she agreed. “We will do as much research as it takes to get it right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, there it is, my first attempt at fanfic. :) I love Molly and just wanted to spend some time developing her character. However, if people feel I've led them on with the ending happening where it does, let me know and maybe I'll be inspired to write a smutty sequel. :D


End file.
